


Swan Song

by terra_incognita



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Swan Lake Fusion, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-09 12:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terra_incognita/pseuds/terra_incognita
Summary: It's an old and tired tale. A lonely prince, a lake, and a swan that is not a swan...Victor isn't expecting to find much of anything when he wanders into the forest in search of a pheasant for his steward's table. The swan is something of a surprise, and so is everything that comes after.





	1. The Black Swan

**Author's Note:**

> “Every lake belongs to the quietness desired by the swans.”  
> -Munia Khan

Victor isn’t sure why the swans out on the silver-blue lake catch his eye. After all, he isn’t hunting swans. He’s supposed to be hunting pheasant for Yakov’s table, an excuse he made up for the sole purpose of getting out from under his steward’s watchful eye. Honestly, Victor isn’t much good at hunting. Game has been scarce and most of his dogs seem to have given up and gone home now that the sun has nearly set—all except Makkachin who, while very loyal and brave and true, is about as good at retrieving birds as Victor is at shooting them.

So, not very.

Still, he pauses by the lake. The swans are combing through the reeds in search of fish or frogs or whatever it is swans eat, oblivious to his presence. All but one.

It’s larger than the others, but not by much. Cautious eyes are fixed squarely on Victor, who stands stock-still in the shadow of the trees. But the most remarkable thing about the swan, Victor can’t help but note, is its color. Coal black from beak to tail, glossy and dark as a patch of night sky cut into the drifting, cloudy white of the flock.

And Victor thinks, a swan is a lot like a pheasant.

In one fluid motion—for Victor makes up in grace what he lacks in skill—he raises his bow, nocks an arrow to the string, and fires.

No sooner does the arrow leave his fingers than the black swan lets out a chilling shriek, its wings pounding at the water. The swans around it take to the air in a flurry of snowy white, crying their frightened surprise at its outburst. Victor flings his hand up to shield his face as one swan nearly crashes into him in its fright, honking away into the forest.

When he looks back at the water, the black swan is still there. It’s paddling further out into the lake, but its movements are awkward and slow—hindered by the arrow protruding from its injured wing.

Victor doesn’t give himself time to be surprised. Makkachin has given chase to the other swans, and if this one gets too far from shore he’s sure to go home empty-handed. He charges into the shallows, water churning around him as he hurries to catch up with the wounded animal. As soon as it notices it’s being pursued the swan swims faster, a few desperate sounds escaping it as it tries to outpace Victor.

No such luck. The water is shallow and Victor’s footing is sure, and soon he’s reaching out to snatch a handful of black feathers in one hand. The swan lets out another cry, struggling as it’s dragged back against Victor’s body. He cringes, wishing he’d managed a killing shot. He hates this part, the kill, but it’s kinder than leaving it wounded. So he wraps one arm around the swan’s belly and reaches for its neck.

The swan, however, isn’t keen to give up the fight. Its uninjured wing crashes down hard on Victor’s questing hand and he yelps, almost letting go. Sharp claws dig into his thigh as the swan writhes against his chest, crying out again and again as it fights for its life.

Cursing, Victor reaches for the knife at his belt. The swan thrashes harder, almost as if it knows what he’s doing, but in spite of its best attempts he manages to get his fingers around the handle just as the last rays of sun vanish over the horizon.

He draws the knife. Raises it high. A wayward breath of wind frees the full moon from its cloudy prison, and its silvery light gleams along the blade.

Then something very curious happens.

Victor feels the water curl around his ankles, ripples spreading out from the place where he stands—soaked and bewildered—with the swan in his arms. Then the weight against his body changes, and he looks back to find that the swan is gone.

Instead, a young man—no older than Victor himself—is staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. He’s lying across Victor’s arm, pale and gasping, with one trembling hand extended to rest on the water’s surface in a halo of scattered black feathers.

His hand, Victor notes with a sick twist in his stomach, is pierced by an arrow. Victor’s arrow.

He opens his mouth to speak, though he has no idea what he’s going to say. In the end, he never finds out.

“Please,” the swan—the man—whispers, his good hand pressed against Victor’s chest to fend him off. “Please, don’t-- I don’t want--”

Victor comes back to himself all at once, releasing the stranger with a startled sound and taking a hurried step back. The not-swan stumbles, barely catching himself before the water can do it for him.

“You were a swan,” Victor says dumbly, staring at the impossible picture in front of him. “You were a swan, what--”

But the man isn’t listening. He’s staring down at his hand, blood dripping sluggishly over the pale of his wrist to catch on his black sleeve. Victor’s heart sinks.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, or why, but he’s hurt someone. Badly. He takes a hesitant step forward, but the stranger flinches away.

Well. It’s no wonder.

“I have bandages,” he says carefully, nodding toward the shore. “I can… if you’ll let me. I can help you.”

Slowly, cautiously, the stranger allows himself to be led to the bank of the lake. Victor helps him ease down onto the thick moss carpeting the forest floor, then kneels next to him.

Neither of them speak as Victor cuts the arrowhead from the shaft, removes the arrow, and goes about the messy business of bandaging the wound. The only sounds are the soft rustling of the breeze, and a few soft exclamations of pain from the stranger.

Finally, Victor ties the last knot. “It… should be all right,” he says, as the stranger pulls his hand back into his own lap. “It didn’t hit any bones, and… and you can still move your fingers.”

The stranger nods slowly.

Victor lets out a long, slow breath. “I’m… really sorry. I didn’t know you were, uh...”

“Human?”

“...Yes? Assuming that’s what you are.” A sudden, chilling thought occurs to him. “You’re not a fairy, are you?”

A dry laugh rattles out of the stranger’s chest. “No. I’m not a fairy. You’re safe, for now.”

Victor makes a relieved sound. “Thank goodness. I’m too young to be flayed alive.”

“Mm.”

He peers over to see the man slowly clenching and unclenching his fingers, staring down at his bandaged hand.

“You shouldn’t move that for a while,” he advises.

The movement stops.

They sit in silence for some time, Victor watching the stranger while the stranger watches the lake. Finally, Victor can’t help himself anymore.

“So you’re not a fairy.”

“No.”

“Then… who are you?”

The man turns to him with an expression of surprise, as though it’s a question he’s never been asked. Then he stares down at the ground for a moment, as though he isn’t sure of the answer.

“Yuuri,” he says finally. “I’m Yuuri.”

By now the lingering gray light of twilight is gone completely. Only the moon and the scattered stars are left to illuminate the lake, the trees, and Yuuri’s upturned face. Victor watches him with a kind of rapt fascination, until those dark eyes turn their unwavering attention on him.

“And you?” Yuuri asks. “Who are you?”

“Um. Nobody important,” Victor manages to reply. “Just. Victor, my name is Victor.”

“Awfully nice clothes for ‘nobody important’,” Yuuri points out, and Victor laughs.

“They used to be.” He glances down at his muddy trousers and soaked shirt with exaggerated mournfulness. “Now they’re pretty much rags.”

“Mm.” Suddenly Yuuri’s hand enters Victor’s field of vision, reaching out to touch the long claw-gouges on Victor’s bloody thigh. Victor goes very, very still. “Sorry about that,” Yuuri murmurs, and when Victor looks up to meet his gaze Yuuri looks chagrined. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Victor stares at him for a moment. “...Well,” he finally replies, “I suppose I can learn to forgive you.”

Yuuri looks hopeful. “Really?”

“Yuuri, I was about to slaughter you like a common chicken. You could’ve cut off my leg and I’d have no right to hold it against you.”

This seems like something of a foreign concept to Yuuri, who just shifts uncomfortably for a moment before returning his gaze to the lake. The moon is high in the sky now, and somewhere in the woods behind them Victor hears Makkachin give a plaintive howl.

Lost, Victor thinks with a fond roll of his eyes. Useless, that dog. Perfect, but useless.

Yuuri doesn’t turn toward the source of the sound. His eyes are fixed on the lake’s opposite bank, narrowed, as though he’s searching for something. Victor peers in the same direction, but can’t make out any movement.

“What--”

“You should go.”

Yuuri’s tone is firm, and leaves no room for argument. Victor feels a little flat-footed, but when he opens his mouth to ask for a little more time Yuuri shakes his head. Just once.

“You should go. It’s not safe.”

“Will you come with me?”

The words are out before Victor really knows what he’s asking, but he finds himself very anxious to hear the answer.

Yuuri’s eyes cut away from the bank to stare at him as though he’s said something unfathomably ridiculous. “...No.”

“Right,” Victor says brusquely, to hide his disappointment. He climbs to his feet. “I’ll just have to come back tomorrow then.”

Yuuri looks alarmed. “What--”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, Yuuri,” Victor says determinedly as he turns to march away. “Try not to get shot again.”

Behind him, Yuuri sputters something incoherent. Victor just smiles, glancing over his shoulder at the black-clad form of Yuuri sitting on the bank of the lake.

“Until tomorrow night,” he says warmly, and then he lets the forest swallow him up.


	2. Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your eyes can lie to you. So can any of your senses. So can your heart, and other people.
> 
> Believing anything is an act of reckless optimism.

“And then he… turned into a swan, did he?”

“No, Yakov. For the last time, the swan-- He was the swan, the swan turned into him.”

“Right.”

“When the moonlight touched the lake.”

“Of course. Yes.” Yakov reaches out to place a hand against Victor’s forehead again and Victor bats it away, scowling.

“I’m not feverish!”

“No, of course not. You just dove into a freezing lake and had a nice chat with a bird. Then you dragged yourself back to the castle in the wee hours claiming that you’d been on a date with a fairy.”

“We’ve been over this. He said he wasn’t a fairy.”

“And you believed him.” Yakov pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “You believed the magical lake-dwelling-moonlight-activated-swan-man. When he told you he wasn’t a fairy.”

“Obviously,” Victor says with a huff and a pout, “He was very sincere.”

“Then believe me when I say this, very sincerely.” Yakov looks up, and his eyes are tired but stern. “Under no circumstances, magical or otherwise, will you be leaving this castle until that fever goes down and you stop sneezing.”

“I’m not--” Victor is interrupted by an explosive sneeze, and scowls up at his steward. “I’m not sick.”

“Freezing lake,” Yakov says again. “Several miles of walking in soggy clothes through dense woodland. Fever, sneezing, red nose.” He stands up, pulling his long coat with its sapphire pin from the back of his chair and shrugging into it. “So no. You will not be—if you’ll pardon the expression—swanning off to make eyes at waterfowl tonight.”

“You’re a hard man, Yakov!” Victor shouts after him. “And a bully!”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The doors swing shut, leaving Victor alone with his thoughts.

“That went well, I thought.”

Almost alone.

“Chris,” Victor groans, flinging his arm over his eyes. “I’m being punished! Unfairly.”

“Well,” Chris trills as he resumes the chair Yakov had usurped from him an hour ago. “You did give him quite a scare yesterday. There were eight search parties, Victor. With dogs and everything. You can’t just disappear like that and expect people to shrug their shoulders and say, ah well, needs must, there goes another prince.”

Victor sighs heavily, the dramatic effect ruined by a cough. “I expect no one would be terribly surprised. Or disappointed. You’d be better at it anyway.”

“Victor,” Chris says very calmly, his hand coming to rest gently on top of Victor’s own. “If you abdicate to live in the forest with a duck, forcing me to take the throne, I will hunt you down and fuse the crown to your skull with calipers and a very hot knife. You know that.” He sits back with a benevolent smile. “And I say that with great love.”

Victor pouts at him. “You’re a very bad royal cousin, you know,” he replies. “You’re supposed to be scheming behind my back, or plotting my murder.”

Chris snorts. “You’re the only thing standing between me and the most stressful job in the kingdom. I will rain fire down on anyone who touches a single hair on your head.”

“If you really loved me you’d champion my assassination.”

“Shut up, Victor.” Chris reaches into the large pockets of his very ostentatious coat. “Anyway, I brought you a get well gift.”

“Not more woodcuts. Chris, the serving girls found the last one you brought and--”

“Please.” Chris pulls out a bound package and tosses it carelessly onto Victor’s lap. “I heard you rambling last night and it reminded me of this. That’s all. Anyway, I’m off.”

He stands, dusting off his elegant sleeves to stall as Victor unties the ribbons binding the parcel. Once the last silk wrapping has fallen away, he’s left holding a little silver mirror.

“It’s… lovely, Chris. Thank you.” Really it’s a little plain, and a bit tarnished around the edges. Chris just sighs as though he’s the most put-upon man in the kingdom.

“Really, Victor. Don’t be obtuse. I got you six horses for your last birthday. It’s more than it seems.”

“Oh?” Victor peers into the mirror, frowning down at his reflection. “It… seems like a mirror.”

“You’re half right.” Chris reaches down to tap on the glass. “It’s a verity glass. An old family heirloom, but I never had much use for it. It reflects the truth.”

Victor holds up the mirror, turning it to look at himself from every angle. “Thank you,” he says, a little more sincerely this time. “But… why are you giving me this?”

Chris shrugs. “You spent all night flirting with a swan.” Then he grins. “I thought a reality check might come in handy.”

Victor makes an indignant noise, sitting bolt upright and chucking one of his pillows at his insolent cousin. “Sassing your prince!” he cries, “That’s treason, probably.”

Chris laughs as he bolts for the door. “It’s only treason once you’re king,” he calls over his shoulder. “If it takes me spending a week in the stocks to get you coronated, it will have been worth it!”

The door swings shut and Victor collapses into the pillows with a helpless chuckle. Chris may be a borderline-treasonous fop, but Victor couldn’t ask for a better friend.

He glances down at the verity glass again, and his own blue eyes stare back.

“So,” he murmurs, watching his reflection mouth the word. The glass is slightly marbled, and it’s like staring into calm water. “A mirror that reflects the truth.”

It doesn’t answer, obviously. Victor hums, and sets the mirror down on his bedside table.

Royalty doesn’t have much use for the truth, he thinks.


End file.
